


Baker's Dozen

by belovedmuerto



Series: An Experiment in Empathy [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Epic Bromance, Gen, experiment in empathy, psychic!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-25
Updated: 2012-03-25
Packaged: 2017-11-02 13:03:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock bakes?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baker's Dozen

**Author's Note:**

> I definitely meant to post this before I flew off to London, but I completely forgot. Midterms and packing will do that to the best of us.
> 
> This is in the same 'verse as the EiE series, but isn't really a part of it. It's from somewhere down the line when things are a bit calmer. I feel like, somehow, they've got even more comfortable in each other by this point, if that makes sense.
> 
> This came about from a sort of prompt on a Ravelry board wherein someone said something about Sherlock baking for Mycroft (I believe) and I said "I need to write that." It was originally going to be kid!fic until I realized that I kinda don't have the first clue how to write kid!fic, and then the empath sat me down and said "Yeah, here's how it really happened, and don't let Sherlock tell you otherwise."
> 
> The usual thanks apply.

It hits John as soon as he turns the corner onto Baker Street: a warm sense of contentment. He keeps walking as it suffuses him; it had been there on the edges of his mind while he ran his errands, but it’s impossible to ignore now. He stops outside the flat and lifts his face to the sky and simply basks for a few minutes. It’s rare, exceedingly so, for Sherlock to feel like this, and John makes no effort to hide how happy he is to share it.

The heaviness of the bags he carries eventually drags him out of his reverie, and he goes up into the flat, where he is immediately assaulted by the smell of... cake.

Sherlock is in the kitchen. In his plaid dressing gown, and his favorite safety goggles. And an apron. It was clearly borrowed from Mrs H, as it is too small. And floral. And mostly pink.

There’s flour in his hair. And on his face.

There is a steaming mug of tea on the side of the table closer to John, and he picks it up and sips.

“Sentiment, John,” Sherlock mutters, brandishing a spatula that appears to be covered in frosting. John scowls at him over his teacup, but doesn’t say anything about the contentment emanating from Sherlock. He doesn’t comment on the fact that he came home to a cup of steaming tea that his best friend had made for him because just like he can bask in Sherlock’s contentment, Sherlock had surely felt his own frustration and exhaustion. He won’t say anything about the fact that Sherlock’s baking, and clearly enjoying the hell out of it. 

OK, no, that’s a lie, he’s definitely going to say something about that.

“You bake?” John asks, managing to keep the incredulity to a minimum.

Sherlock gives him a look. “Do keep up, John.” He grabs a spoon from the drawer where they live with the cheap pipettes and dips it in the frosting, then holds it out to John. “Taste this.”

John obeys. “Mmm, this is good.”

Sherlock scowls at him and continues to stir the frosting. 

“So... you bake, then?” John tries not to giggle. _No, Sherlock, I’m not going to let this go._

Sherlock sighs at John’s continued insistence on asking obvious questions. Over a year of living together and a psychic connection that allows him to let John know nonverbally how annoying it is and yet, John still does it. Perversion, that’s what it is. That’s the sort of pleasure John gets from doing it despite knowing it annoys his best friend. Never mind how often those obvious questions lead to leaps of brilliance and deduction on Sherlock’s part. 

“Yes, John. I bake. Baking is chemistry. Baking is how I discovered chemistry. My earliest experiments were in the kitchen, until I was deemed old enough for a bunsen burner.”

John’s not sure he should ask, but, “How old was old enough for a bunsen burner?”

“Six.”

John blinks. 

“I baked for Mycroft,” Sherlock continues, apparently feeling loquacious. “I liked baking for Mycroft, and he always liked my cake the best.”

“Did he teach you to bake?”

Sherlock laughs. “Oh, God no. The cook taught me. Caught me hovering and made me start stirring things. Mycroft simply explained all the chemical processes to me and supervised when I started experimenting.”

“You made your own recipes?”

He shrugs. “Yes, I suppose I did. Most of them were awful, but he always pretended they were good. Sometimes they actually were good; it was always fun to surprise him.”

John smiles. It’s rare that Sherlock talks about his childhood, rarer still that he actually admits to how much he looked up to his older brother as a child. It goes hand in hand with the warm feeling of nostalgia, of contentment that he’d walked into, and he likes it. On the other hand, Sherlock never does nice things for his brother anymore, and there’s every chance he has something devious planned for this ‘experiment’.

“Why are you baking your brother a cake, anyway? Most of the time you can’t even stand to be in the same room as him. Is this one going to explode as well?”

Sherlock laughs again. “No, it’s not going to explode. That would be repetitive and dull. Mother called and requested I bake a cake for his not-promotion.”

It’s clear that while he says ‘requested’ what he actually means is ‘ordered on pain of displeasing Mother and that’s really not a good idea.’

John quirks a brow. “Your mother asked you to bake a cake for your brother because he didn’t get a promotion?”

“No, John. He got a not-promotion.”

John just blinks at him again, and Sherlock sighs, but explains. “He absorbed another office. They don’t actually give him promotions, they just let him take over less efficiently run ministries. They can’t actually promote him, as they seldom admit he actually exists or has real function in the government, so when they’re particularly pleased, or when he’s feeling ruthless, he absorbs another office, and Mother calls me and insists I bake him a cake. Red Velvet, this time. I suppose because it was essentially another bloodless coup.” Sherlock shrugs and tastes his frosting, then adds another dash of powdered sugar, a dollop of milk, then starts stirring again.

John doesn’t have any response to that. As long as he’s known Sherlock, as well as he feels like he knows his friend, his family is still mostly a mystery. And he’s rather happy to keep it that way. Mycroft is bad enough, he shudders to contemplate the woman who raised these two men. He finishes his tea and heads upstairs to put things away and take a shower.

When he comes back downstairs, Sherlock is finishing up the lettering on top of the cake. His neat, precise hand with the lurid, neon blue frosting is a contrast to his normal, messy scrawl.

“Congratulation on absolutely nothing? Well. That’s awful.”

Sherlock shrugs and smiles. “He’ll get it.”

“You two have a strange relationship.”

“I could say the same of you and your sister, John.”

“Point taken.” John wanders through the kitchen, careful to avoid Sherlock’s mess, and looks in the fridge. “Anything in? I’m a bit peckish.”

“I ordered Angelo’s. Billy should be by in about an hour with it.”

“Angelo’s delivers?” John decides to have a beer.

“Not to anyone else. Angelo said something about making a new dish for you. Something with clams, he said.” Sherlock carefully puts the cake in a carrying container and seals it.

“Yum,” John replies, taking a thoughtful swig of his drink. “How are you going to get the cake to Mycroft?”

There’s a knock at the door, and Mycroft’s assistant walks in.

‘Hello, John,’ she says directly into his head.

John shudders and glares at her. He’s 100% certain she only greets him telepathically because of how much it annoys him, because of how weird it feels having her thoughts insinuated in his head. Sometimes it reminds him of Seb, and Sherlock gives him a sharp, startled look at the rush of hatred that rips through John. John shakes his head at Sherlock-- _leave it be_ \--and grunts a response to the gorgeous PA before he leaves the room with his beer.

“Your mother called me,” she tells Sherlock, aloud.

Sherlock scowls at her, knowing her to be the source of John’s discomfort, and practically shoves the cake into her arms. 

She leaves again, quickly. John settles onto the sofa in the lounge with the newspaper and his beer, but his concentration suffers and he yawns nearly constantly.

He hadn’t slept much last night. They’d got in ridiculously late, case solved, bad guys handed over to Scotland Yard, and he’d had his appointment to keep this morning, and errands to run since he was already up and about and out of the flat. It’s catching up with him quick. Hopefully they’ll have a few days of down time. Sherlock will eat dinner, they’ll watch a film and go over the case. He’ll write up some notes about how he wants to frame it on the blog. Sherlock might work on another experiment. Hopefully Sherlock will clean up the kitchen--actually, he seems to be working on that now, if the noise is any indication.

“Take a nap, John,” Sherlock calls from the other room.

“Hmm, what?” John responds, before yawning again. He folds the paper and puts it down next to his half-drunk beer.

“Take a nap, you’re making me sleepy. I’ll wake you when the food gets here, should be about an hour.”

“Yeah, all right,” John responds, words starting to slur together already.

“I made a tiramisu as well,” Sherlock says quietly, suddenly standing over John. John hadn’t heard him come in from the kitchen

John blinks up at him and smiles, more than half asleep already. “‘S my favorite.”

Sherlock smiles back. ‘I know.’


End file.
